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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532526">Would I Love You, If I Couldn't Touch You?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koneko_Neko/pseuds/Koneko_Neko'>Koneko_Neko</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Project Blue Book (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Food Kink, Isolation, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexual Fantasy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:06:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,643</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koneko_Neko/pseuds/Koneko_Neko</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Quinn is stuck in quarantine. Doctor's orders.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>J. Allen Hynek/Michael Quinn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Day 8 of 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I could tell you that this story exists because I'm stuck in quarantine due to Covid-19 and we all write what we know, but I'd be lying. This story exists because of the Project Blue Book server on Discord. There's just too many plot bunnies running around that place and, apparently, I wanted to adopt all those fuzzy cuties. Many thanks to my beta, who was kind enough to look over the story twice and catch my mistakes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael Quinn sat at his table with a cigarette between his fingers. It was Wednesday, early morning. The clock on the wall read 8:23 A.M., to be precise. Michael brought the cigarette up to his lips, inhaled deeply, then exhaled, filling the air with smoke. Normally, he would be showered and dressed and at the office by now, not sitting at home, unwashed and still in last night's clothes, casually feeding his addiction.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Going to work was just not on the agenda today. The entire act of leaving was out of the question, because he was under strict orders to stay inside his apartment. Michael could follow orders. One of the first lessons the Air Force had taught him was how to follow orders, even ones he didn't necessarily agree with. In the military, a man would rise or fall based on his ability to do as he was told.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One could say that, under the circumstances, Michael was trapped. Trapped in his apartment, sure, but being there rather than in a place with fewer comforts and more restrictions, like an actual cage, didn't make the concept any less applicable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What did a man do when he was trapped? Naturally, he thought about <em>not</em> being trapped. He thought, <em>how do I get out of here</em>? And, especially, <em>where will I go when I do</em>?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>While beneficial during most forms of captivity, those kinds of thoughts were problematic now because they invited temptation, temptation which Michael then had to resist. His willpower was strong, but he didn't need to test how strong. He had to banish all thoughts of leaving from his mind <em>before</em> they could take a dangerous hold over him and make him do something that, at best, would make Allen mad at him, and, at worst, would get people killed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael put out his cigarette in the ashtray with far more force than was necessary, half imagining that the glowing red cinders at the end represented his desire to escape. Because he couldn't. Even though there was nothing physically keeping him inside, no chains, no locks, or bars, or guards, he couldn't leave his apartment until he finished his quarantine period. All fourteen days of it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Doctor's orders, or so he liked to joke to himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Damn quarantine,” Michael said, pushing away from the table. He said that so often these days that he now considered it his own personal mantra.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Day eight continued with the custom workout regime Michael had designed to fit the limited amount of space and equipment he had available in his apartment. Pushups, jumping jacks, pullups, situps, combat practice. The basics, really. Almost like boot camp, minus the running. If the man in the apartment below Michael's was still home, he would complain to the landlord about all the pounding he heard. Hopefully that man had gone to work. <em>Some </em>people could still do that. Lucky devils.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael exercised until his arms and legs burned, his body was soaked in sweat, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He was so tired he thought that, if he laid down and closed his eyes, he'd probably sleep for a week straight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sleep for a week straight? If only Michael could, because, after he showered and put on a fresh set of clothes, he was wide awake and hunting for something to do. Making eggs and toast and coffee for breakfast was that moment's something. He wasn't paying attention and burned the toast by accident, but decided he would eat the blackened slices instead of making a new batch because he only had five slices left and those had to last. Sacrifices had to be made sometimes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn't like Michael could just waltz down to the corner store and buy more bread when he ran out, like most normal people could. No, if he needed bread, he would have to...what's a good word? Requisition? That was the word. He would have to requisition bread, and that was surprisingly difficult when Allen Hynek was the man in charge of those requests.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael knew how the conversation would go if he asked Allen to replenish his bread supply at a point in time deemed “too soon.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“Michael, I just bought you a loaf of bread.” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “That was, what, seven days ago? Six? I need another.” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “It was four days, actually. How can one man go through a loaf of bread in four days?” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “He's hungry?” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “You're not wasting it, are you? I'm not going to buy it for you if you're just going to waste it.” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael took a bite of the burnt toast and chewed slowly. He swallowed it down. “Damn quarantine,” he said, repeating his mantra, as he looked at the rest of the slice with disdain. The grape jam didn't mask the bad taste as much as he had hoped.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael moved into the living room after he finished eating his breakfast and doing the dishes, carrying a refilled cup of hot coffee with him. With his free hand, he grabbed a book from a crate on the floor. He sat down in his favorite spot, and propped the book open in his lap. The book was a volume of the <em>Encyclopaedia Britannica</em>, a gift from Allen, his partner turned lover.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Michael got a call from Allen six days ago, telling him that something to fill up his time was on its way, he'd gotten excited. Even that early into his quarantine, he was already desperate for new things to do.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next morning, when he opened the door to find nothing but a crate full of encyclopedias with a handwritten note listing articles he might like to start with, he was unable to suppress a groan of frustration. Only a man like Allen would think someone would <em>want </em>to read reference books when they were cooped up inside their homes due to illness.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If a man was trapped, however, he had to find ways to stay busy. He'd go insane if he didn't. For lack of any better options, Michael made reading the books a normal part of his routine. He'd sip his morning coffee, and skim the articles in the encyclopedia instead of those in the newspaper. Sometimes, he'd follow Allen's recommendations, but mostly he'd just open random volumes to random pages and hope to learn something interesting. Encyclopedia roulette, if you will.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael would never admit it to anyone, but a part of him enjoyed reading the books each day. Maybe it was because he was a firm believer in being educated, and each tidbit of new information he absorbed made him feel a bit better about himself. Or maybe, it was because the encyclopedias reminded him of Allen. <em>His</em> Allen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just like that, Michael didn't want to read anymore. He wanted to listen to music. Yes, music. It was too quiet in the room, too peaceful. Michael needed to liven the place up a bit. He set the book aside, and went over to the radio. He flicked it on, turned up the volume. Unfortunately, he knew the song that was playing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>...sure as there's a moon above you, would I love you, love you, love you...”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael swallowed. “Would I love you” by Patti Page. In a perfect world, a man like Allen wouldn't have to marry Mimi just to satisfy the needs of the conservative society they both lived in. No, he would marry for love, not convenience. He would marry Michael, they would play this song at their wedding reception, they would dance to it in full view of everyone, and no one would say a word.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Books. Songs. All just reminders of Allen, who wasn't there, and who couldn't be there. Michael couldn't have a face to face conversation with his lover during his two weeks of quarantine, let alone touch him. Michael's forced isolation was wholly unfair and unpleasant. No wonder solitary confinement was used as a form of punishment in prison.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael wished he could just <em>forget</em> about Allen for a while. He hated the very idea of that, but he reasoned he couldn't miss someone he couldn't remember. It would only be for a little while, anyway. How about until the day Allen could be a tangible part of his life again?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Damn quarantine. Damn Typhoid Linda, too. Aliens should have done us all a favor and abducted her for real,” Michael muttered, turning off the radio and flopping down on the couch, arms crossed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Allen had been lucky. Too busy with work at the university, he was unable to accompany Michael on the last case, and he didn't have to come into contact with Mrs. Linda Hardwick. Typhoid Linda, as Michael came to call her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mrs. Hardwick fell asleep each night but woke up the next morning out in the woods behind her house with no memory of how she got there. Had to be aliens, of course. How else could you explain someone moving to a location hundreds of yards from where they fell asleep but not waking up or even being aware of moving? And, when she got sick, it was because of aliens, too. They infected her with a virus while she was up in their spaceship.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael had been skeptical of her claims from the start. He ignored many of her later calls, especially after learning that she was well known to the local authorities as someone who made up wild stories and generally just acted in a manner no sane person would. Michael only acted when the aforementioned local authorities called to say that four people in the area fell ill with similar symptoms, and the fear was spreading. Even if Mrs. Hardwick was a crackpot, and this was all a hoax, the last thing Michael needed was for people to believe that there actually was an alien virus going around.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Also, Allen <em>might</em> have reminded him that the last time he ignored a witness because they were quote-unquote crazy, it ended in a hostage situation and a shooting at the Project Blue Book office. No one wanted something like that to happen again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As it turned out, to no one's surprise, it was all a hoax. Mrs. Hardwick was never abducted. She was, however, prone to sleepwalking. She lived alone, and miles from her neighbors, so Michael became the first person to catch her in the act. In the middle of the night, as he waited on the porch under the guise of watching for alien spaceships coming to take her way, he saw her emerge from the front door, and walk, on her own two feet, across the lawn and into the woods. He had followed her, amazed at her trance-like state, and unsure whether or not to wake her up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And the virus? The virus was real, but something very much from this planet. Mrs. Hardwick had a flu, a bad strain that was more contagious than most others, which explained how four other people wound up ill. Still, it was just a flu. A woman like Linda Hardwick didn't have the money to see a doctor, however, and, without anyone to set her straight, she settled on the explanation that got her the most attention: aliens.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael spoke to the sheriff as well as a couple of reporters that were sneaking around in hopes of getting a lead on the next big story. He explained that Mrs. Hardwick had nothing more than an overactive imagination to go alongside a startling tendency to sleepwalk. The disease—which wasn't alien in origin, by the way—was not deadly and could be handled by the local doctor. Nothing to see here. Everyone move along. Case closed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael was home the next day. Allen, unable or unwilling to wait until Michael arrived at the office, pressed him for all the details of the case during their nightly call. Sometimes, Michael wondered if Allen was more interested in the cases than him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael told Allen everything, even the part about the virus, not anticipating his partner's reaction at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“Influenza? Were the doctors sure about that? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “Seemed to be.” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “Did you come into contact with that woman? Close contact?” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “She was the witness. What exactly did you expect me to do, keep a minimum of six feet away from her at all times?” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “Michael, where did you go between there and here? What restaurants? Bars? You didn't go to the office, did you?” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “I'm sensing there's a problem here, Doc. Care to tell me what that problem is?”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “The problem, Michael, is that you were exposed to an extremely contagious disease, and you have not taken any precautions to prevent the spread of that disease! You should be under quarantine. In fact, the doctor should have placed Mrs. Hardwick, and anyone who came into contact with her, under quarantine the second he had the diagnosis!” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “You can't be serious.” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “Don't leave your apartment. Don't even try to come to the office tomorrow, because I </em> will <em> tell the guards at the gate that you are a threat to the base and they should not let you through!” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “Doc, you know what 'AWOL' is, right?”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “Michael, please! Please, just do what I say! It is very important that you do!” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Looking back on things—and Michael certainly had plenty of time to do that lately—he could understand Allen's reaction. Influenza was a very real threat to a man like Allen. He had been young at the time, but he lived through the outbreak of 1918. People all over the world were getting sick and dying, this all happening as the war raged on in the background. He had to remember something, maybe just a vague something, but that alone could lead to some serious mental scarring. As an adult, he no doubt read literature on the topic that further reenforced any fears he had of the disease.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>However low the odds of something like that occurring again, Allen obviously didn't want Michael to take any risks and end up the cause of the next great pandemic. For a guy that spent <em>a year</em> stuck in quarantine in his bedroom when he was seven, two weeks probably didn't seem like that long to be on lock down.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After some more arguing, the two men made a deal. Michael would stay in quarantine for fourteen days, and try not to go insane, while Allen would take care of things on the outside. That included everything related to Blue Book, as well as any shopping or errands Michael needed done. Blue Book was still running, Michael wasn't considered AWOL, and he hadn't starved, so Allen was holding up his end of the bargain rather well.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Which begged the question, how <em>did </em>Allen get the generals to go along with this quarantine nonsense? That was a question a devious man like Michael would hold onto until he had Allen, sweaty and naked beneath him, begging for release, and willing to answer just about anything if it meant he didn't have to wait to cum a second longer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the subjects of patience and sex, Michael was running out of the former because he couldn't have the latter. He wanted Allen, in person, because his right hand could only go so far and do so much.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>How long did Allen stay outside the door after dropping off packages? Michael wasn't sure, but he believed he could catch him there if he sprinted to the door right when he heard a knock. Michael could open the door, grab Allen, and drag him inside before the older, slower man had a chance to get away. Also, before any of his nosy neighbors could see what they thought was Michael kidnapping some poor door-to-door salesman and call the police.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>By Allen's own rules, he couldn't leave after that because he had been exposed to the virus. Allen would have to be quarantined for fourteen days, too. They could be quarantined together! It would be fun. In fact, Michael was more than willing to start his fourteen days all over again if he could have Allen with him the second time around.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Project Blue Book would have to be temporarily shut down, and getting supplies, like food, would be an even bigger problem. Michael had this feeling that he could live with both of those things if it meant two weeks of uninterrupted time with his lover.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>All work and no play makes Michael a dull boy. All play and no work makes Michael a mere toy. If given the choice, Michael preferred to be the toy. Allen's toy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael slowly slid sideways and pulled his legs up onto the cushions so that he was laying down on the couch instead of sitting. He stared at the ceiling with his forearms and hands resting on his belly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Allen would never forgive Michael if he intentionally exposed him to the virus, though, would he? As soon as Allen overcame his shock, he'd be furious. He would sputter, “How dare you!” a time or two, then probably lock himself in the nearest room, refusing to come near Michael in the vain hope that he hadn't been exposed long enough to catch anything. Not good.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael's eyes slid shut. His mind cut up his thoughts and stitched only the good parts back together to create a much better version of that scenario in his head. He was left with Allen, swept off his feet, locked in a room in Michael's home for fourteen days. Wait...Allen wouldn't have any fresh clothes to change into, would he? He'd just have to go naked after the first set got soiled.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Okay, now it was Allen, swept off his feet, locked in a room in Michael's home for fourteen days with no clothes. A happy Allen, too, because this was Michael's fantasy and he could imagine Allen in any mood he pleased. That was the ticket.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Blood flowed to all the right places. Michael undid his pants, and pushed them open and down, because they were going to be too tight in a minute. His right hand took hold of his hardening cock. “Mmmmmm,” Michael moaned, as he started to stroke himself to the racy images inside his head.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael's eyes snapped open. His nostrils flared. He growled. If he couldn't have the real thing, couldn't he <em>at least</em> have this? Ten minutes, that's all he asked for. Ten uninterrupted minutes to get the tiniest bit of sexual pleasure he was still allowed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was probably nobody important. The generals weren't going to waste time calling a man who was, for all intents and purposes, under house arrest, and Allen never called this early in the day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Whatever. Michael just wasn't in the mood anymore. In no particular rush, he put himself back together, thankful he didn't get too far and still could, and went for the phone on the desk. If he made it, he made it. If not, oh well.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring! Ring!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The evil bastard on the other end was a persistent bastard, apparently, and wasn't going to hang up that easily. Michael was forced to pick up the receiver, and place it to his ear. “Michael Quinn,” he spat, actually hoping whoever it was would hear the anger in his voice and hang up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah, Mr. Quinn. I'm glad you're home,” said a male voice over the telephone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The voice was familiar. Michael only needed a second to place a name and face to it. Mr. Calvin, older chap, thin, mustached. Owner of Calvin &amp; Sons Dry Cleaning. Honestly, Mr. Calvin charged too much for his services. On the other hand, he didn't ask too many questions when a suspiciously stained garment came into his shop. Price or discretion. Go ahead, guess which of those two things someone like Michael considered more important when choosing a dry cleaner.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mr. Calvin, hello. What do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Michael said, gritting his teeth and trying to sound pleasant even though he wanted to reach through the phone line and punch the man on the other end for interrupting his good time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mr. Quinn, I just wanted to remind you that you have two suits and two shirts ready for pick up,” Mr. Calvin said. “In fact, they have been ready to pick up <em>for the last nine days</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Nine days? Oh God</em>,<em> I remember now</em>, Michael thought as he smacked himself across the forehead. He was going to pick up his dry cleaning on the way to the office, on his first day back from the case. With all this quarantine nonsense, he had completely forgotten about it. He wasn't wearing suits these days, for obvious reasons, so it wasn't like he had many chances to go looking in the closet and notice they were missing. Damn quarantine!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I apologize,” Michael said, sounding honestly contrite now because this man was just trying to run his business after all. “Due to a...medical emergency...I have been unable to come and pick them up.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mr. Quinn, given your occupation, I understand that your life can be quite unpredictable. However, that does <em>not</em> mean my business will hold onto your garments indefinitely. We have given you ample time to pick them up, far more than we would have given some of our other clients, I'll have you know,” Mr. Calvin said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I understand, and I will send someone to pick them up as soon as possible,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“See that you do, Mr. Quinn, because if those suits are not picked up by the end of the week, they will be considered abandoned property and will be disposed of in whatever manner we at Calvin &amp; Sons Dry Cleaning see fit. Understood?” Mr. Calvin said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Understood,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good, now have a wonderful rest of your day, Mr. Quinn,” Mr. Calvin said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The line went dead, and Michael slowly returned the receiver to the cradle. He stood by the phone, fighting valiantly to control his growing rage and frustration with the use of simple logic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He told himself everything was okay, that some of his best suits were <em>not</em> gone yet. After all, he had till the end of the week, which gave him plenty of time to fix things. He couldn't pick his own clothes up, obviously, and Allen couldn't, either, because he was out of town on a case. Michael just had to find someone else to do it for him. Simple as that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, who to ask? Generals Harding and Valentine? God, no. Michael would rather watch as Mr. Calvin tossed every piece of clothing he owned onto a bonfire, in public, before he would ask one of his commanding officers to get his dry cleaning for him. <em>Every piece</em>. <em>In public</em>. Let that sink in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What about Mimi? He couldn't ask her, either. She was an amazing woman, one who let Michael and Allen be together even if it put her and her family's reputation at risk, but she didn't need to add Michael to the list of people she cared for. Let her focus on Allen and Joel. Her family. Her official family.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Okay, who else did that leave? Faye? Michael sighed. He had to ask his secretary for personal favors now? Had it finally come to that? He was sure she would do it, but a man should have friends and family that he could count on. People who would do what he asked because they cared for him, not because he was their boss and doing what he asked was their job.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At times like these, Michael realized he wasn't just alone in his apartment, he was alone in the world, and it put him in an even blacker mood.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I need a drink...” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael went to the bar cart and poured himself a generous portion of bourbon. He downed it in a few gulps. He poured more. He drank more. He grabbed the glass and the bottle and went to the couch where he was determined to drink until he didn't care about anything anymore.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And he would have, too, if not for the return of his new worst enemy...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wasn't going to answer it this time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wasn't.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Really.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ring!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Quinn,” he said, picking up the phone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The voice on the other end was like a gift from the heavens, and the only thing that could have prevented Michael from drinking himself into unconsciousness over the next hour.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Michael,” Allen said. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael was beyond happy to have Allen on the phone with him, but he was also nervous because it was far too early in the day for him to be calling. He always called in the evening. You could practically set your watch by him. Did this mean something was wrong? Please, don't let anything be wrong, because Michael couldn't do anything to protect his lover right now. Damn quarantine!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What's going on, is something wrong? Are you in danger?” Michael said, skipping the pleasantries.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, 'hello' to you, too,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael forced himself to relax. “Sorry, I just...you don't normally call this early. It made me worry,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You have nothing to worry about, Captain,” Allen said. “I'm just waiting on the results of some tests out here. The investigation is on hold until I get them, so...I thought I'd give you a call, see how you were holding up.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael brought the phone to the couch, stretching its cord to the limit, and sat down. “Me? I'm holding up just fine, Doc,” he lied, looking directly at the empty glass and the nearly empty bottle of bourbon on the table in front of him as he did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hmmm...somehow I doubt that's true,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, you'd be the expert,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Listen, I can't tell you enough how sorry I am about all this, but I know we are doing the right thing here,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Don't use the 'we' word</em>, thought Michael. Allen had a bad habit of doing things based on what he and he alone thought was right, and Michael usually ended up getting dragged along for the ride. Roswell, anyone?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael and Allen were together now, so, theoretically, Allen should have gotten better about talking to Michael before he did something that would affect both of them. But...Allen was still Allen. He'd act, and Michael would react. They would kiss and make up afterward, pretty literally these days, but that didn't wash <em>all</em> the bad taste out of Michael's mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips. “Sure, Doc, whatever you say,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Michael...please don't be that way...” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael exhaled. “Sorry, been a long day,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did something happen?” Allen asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael didn't want this conversation to be about his dry cleaning woes. Allen couldn't help him with that problem, anyway. “Quite the opposite, actually. Nothing happened all day. Absolutely nothing,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You're bored, I understand. Have you even tried reading the books I sent?” Allen asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The <em>Britannica</em>?” Michael laughed. “Sure I have, Doc, but that's not my idea of fun. You know what my idea of fun is, don't you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There was a pause at the end of the line, and Michael smirked because that pause probably meant that Allen was thinking about Michael's idea of fun, and it was distracting him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I'm well aware of it,” Allen said, after a time, and did his voice sound a little huskier than usual, or was Michael just imagining it?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Suddenly, Michael had an idea, a very naughty idea. This was not something he had tried with Allen in the past, but there was a first time for everything.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, where are you? Phone booth?” Michael asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, I'm at the motel,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your room?” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, why?” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Yes, yes, yes</em>, thought Michael. He put his cigarette out, because if he kept it lit during what he was about to do, it could lead to burns in some very unfortunate places.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Allen, I want you to tell me something I would do to have fun,” Michael ordered as he pushed the coffee table away from the couch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A pause. “You...want me to...what exactly?” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael removed his pants and underwear and kicked them across the floor. He then got into a comfortable position on the couch. “I want you to tell me,<em> in detail</em>, what I would do to have fun,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Silence. Michael started to worry that Allen wasn't going to say anything, which was always a possibility, and he'd be handling things on his own. Again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You...would have sex...” Allen began.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael stroked himself. “Go on,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...with me...” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clearly, Allen was nervous and unsure of what to do. This was what Michael was afraid of but also what he expected at first.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Allen had very little sexual experience with either women or men. Women, because he was too much of a prude to touch one before he had a ring on her finger. Men, because he was too afraid to act on his true desires. That all changed when he met Michael. Despite being younger, Michael had the experience. He taught Allen a hundred different ways to have sex and was willing to teach him a hundred more, even though Allen could be a terribly slow learner sometimes. <em>Sometimes</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Be specific, Doc,” Michael instructed, closing his eyes and hoping for Allen to fill his head with images, “and start from the beginning.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We're...in your apartment,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael wiped precum from the tip of his cock and rubbed it along his length for lubrication. “Where?” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your living room,” Allen said. “I'm on the couch.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Where am I, and what am I doing?” Michael asked, giving himself another stroke.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You're in front of me...you take your clothes off...slowly...piece by piece...” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael had put on a show like that for Allen plenty of times, and he did enjoy doing it. “And then what do I do?” he asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This scenario could play out in several different ways, and Michael worried that Allen would freeze up as he went over all the choices in his head and tried to pick the one he thought Michael wanted to hear. <em>Just pick one you like, you can do it</em>, Michael thought.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You...straddle my lap...” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you still dressed?” Michael asked, because he...had a thing for that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, and you like the feel of my clothes against your bare skin,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stroke. Think what the material of the Doc's trousers felt like against his bare legs. Stroke again. “What happens when I'm in your lap?” Michael said, eager to hear what comes next.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I have candy, and I feed pieces to you...<em>by hand</em>...,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael's eyes snapped open, and his hand stilled, because he instantly realized that the two of them had <em>never</em> done anything like that before. That could only mean one thing: Allen wasn't just recounting a past sexual encounter to get through this, he was making up his own. He was fantasizing, and he was doing it over the phone, with Michael!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ladies and gentleman, Dr. J. Allen Hynek was having phone sex, and Michael didn't even have to write him a script.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...What type of candy...?” Michael asked out of dumb curiosity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Chocolate bourbon caramels. Imported for just such an occasion,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mmmm,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“After I feed you the last one, you take three of my fingers into your mouth. You suck greedily,” Allen said, his voice thick with arousal, clearly enjoying this as much as Michael.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh God,” Michael moaned.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I pull my fingers from your mouth, and I reach down, between your legs. You're hard. Are you hard now, Michael?” Allen asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Roger...ngh...that,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I put my wet fingers against your hole. You squirm, and spread your legs wider for me,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael shimmied into a horizontal position and spread his legs wider, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his head so he could use both of his hands to touch himself. He only wished he was flexible enough to reach down and use his own fingers to act out what Allen's were doing in the fantasy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I push one finger inside of you, but it's not enough, is it?” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, no, no,” Michael moaned, on the brink of climax.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I put two fingers inside of you, and spread you, get you ready to take my cock,” Allen said. “You press back into my hand, wanting more, wanting me to hit that sweet spot inside of you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That was enough for Michael. He came with a shout, cum shooting over his belly and hands until spent. Then he just laid there, listening to Allen's heavy breathing on the other end and vaguely aware that the good doctor might be taking care of his own needs. Michael felt drained, but in the good way.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Was that good?” Allen said, after a few minutes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael sighed contentedly. “That was...fantastic,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why don't you go clean yourself up and take a nap?” Allen said. “I'll call you later.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Okay,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Goodnight, Michael,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“G'night,” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael hung up his phone, smearing cum on the receiver and not caring at all. He decided to follow Allen's advice because, between the booze and the masturbation, he was feeling more than a bit tired. He went to the bathroom to wipe himself down with a wet washcloth and take off his dirty clothes. After that, he crawled into bed with a smile on his face.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>It's always food with him,</em> thought Michael, shortly before he fell asleep.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Day 15 of 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Michael's quarantine period has just been extended. Doctor's orders.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The idea for this bonus chapter came straight from the PBB Discord.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Michael Quinn sat at his table with a cup of coffee. It was Wednesday, early morning. The clock on the wall read 7:13 A.M., to be precise. Michael drank the last drop of coffee, and set the empty cup in the sink, to be washed later. He was showered, styled, and dressed in one of the suits that Faye had rescued from the clutches of Mr. Calvin. She dropped it, along with the rest of his clothes, at his door with a cute little note pinned to them, showing how much she cared.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was strange, though. Her note said she would see him when he returned on Friday. If she meant this Friday, which she had to, then that implied she thought his quarantine period was longer than fourteen days. She must have been mistaken, but it wasn't like her to make clerical errors like that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Regardless of whatever Faye believed, however, Michael was a free man today, and he was going to work. He had never been so happy to go to the office in his whole time at Blue Book. So happy, he was whistling when he put on his coat and hat and headed for the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and swung the door open with a flourish, only to see Allen standing there with two lumpy paper bags in his arms. Bags full of...were those groceries? Michael was certain he saw a loaf of bread peeking out the top of one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good, I caught you,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Caught me?” Michael said, confused.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael tried to move around Allen, to escape, to taste the free air, but there wasn't enough room. He wound up herded backward down the narrow entrance hall of his apartment, and into the kitchen, as Allen bulldozed his way in. Allen set the bags on the kitchen counter, and started to unload their contents, which were, in fact, food items.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Allen, what are you doing here?” Michael said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Allen placed a bag of flour and a carton of eggs on the counter and two cans of vegetables into the cupboard, before he looked over his shoulder at Michael. “Keeping you here,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>No</em>,” Michael said, in a tone that did not invite discussion. He moved toward the door with purpose.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I told the generals and Faye you would be unavailable for sixteen days,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael stopped in his tracks. He felt his eye twitch. His jaws and fists clenched in anger. This was what Allen did. He made decisions without consulting Michael, and Michael was left to deal with the consequences.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael turned on his heel, so he was facing Allen, who was still putting groceries away in an infuriatingly calm manner.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You did what?” Michael hissed, feeling like he was a hair's breadth away from punching the older man in a kitchen again. He didn't want to hurt Allen, and he'd feel horrible if he did, but Allen had a way of pushing his anger buttons, and he couldn't <em>always</em> compensate for it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I want you to know I didn't lie to the generals, I just...mmmm...gave them the idea you needed to be away from the office a few days longer than what you and I previously discussed,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael took one menacing step closer to Allen. “<em>Why</em>?” he asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Allen was finally reacting to Michael's anger, perhaps also remembering what happened the last time Michael was this angry at him in a kitchen. Allen's fingers danced nervously on the box of candy he had in his hands, and was holding in front of him rather like a shield.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I knew you were upset about all this, especially after you didn't even get sick, and I wanted to do something to make you feel better,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Allen, how the hell is trapping me in the<em> one place</em> I want to leave going to make me feel better!” Michael shouted as he slammed his fist against the counter top.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well,” Allen said, holding out the box in his hands so Michael could see it, “I <em>am</em> going to be with you this time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael stared at the box, not sure how it was going to change anything. He read the label. His brow furrowed in confusion. Then he read the box again, not really believing what he was seeing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael's anger turned to amusement. He relaxed. He actually chuckled. “Those are real?” he said, pointing to the box of chocolate bourbon caramels that Allen was holding.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes,” Allen said, “and imported, for just such an occasion.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright then,” Michael said, moving to embrace Allen. One hand went around Allen's waist, the other went up to remove his hat and toss it on the counter. “I think I can do another two days, but only if you're going to be in here suffering with me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Allen returned Michael's embrace. They shared a chaste kiss, the first kiss they'd shared in more than two weeks. “I'd hardly call this suffering,” he said after their lips parted.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Michael nuzzled the point where Allen's neck met his shoulder and went upwards from there. Up until that moment, Michael hadn't realized how much he <em>really</em> missed the scratch of Allen's beard against his smooth cheek or the smell of the older man's cologne. It was always the little things you missed most, wasn't it?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Allen still clutched his confectionery peace offering in one hand. Michael could feel the edge of the box poking into his back. “I shouldn't be eating chocolate for breakfast,” Michael breathed against Allen's neck.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, and that's why you're going to show me how to make pancakes,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Clothes on or off?” Michael asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Off,” Allen said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Roger that,” Michael said before going in for a deeper kiss.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title is, partially, from the song referenced in the fic.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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